


The Legend of Sleepy Crestwood

by gremlinquisitor (suchanadorer)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Halloween, M/M, Sleepy Hollow retelling, Spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 03:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21237068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/gremlinquisitor
Summary: The harvest festival in Crestwood should be the perfect place for Alistair to finally get a moment alone with the Commander to confess his feelings and see if they are returned, but the night goes not at all as he hoped.





	The Legend of Sleepy Crestwood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FunnyLittleFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunnyLittleFox/gifts).

> Written for the [DA/ME Fic-or-Treat Exchange on tumblr](https://fic-or-treat.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you to [cullenlovesmen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/handersmyheart/pseuds/cullenlovesmen) for the beta read!

The trees around Crestwood that can grow leaves have turned from rich greens to every shade of light and fire, dappling hills and roadsides with gold, orange, and indeed a much safer red than that which Alistair recalls from when he sought refuge in a cave here. Clearing away the lyrium will take time, if it is at all possible, but he hears no song as his steed strolls along the track, save for birds and the wind in dry leaves.

The town is rebuilding, and with that comes a return to traditions. The Inquisition has sent emissaries to Caer Bronach to open the doors of the keep for a night so that they can participate in the harvest festival that the locals are busily organizing. There is evidence of it in front of every occupied home that Alistair passes. The breeze carries the scent of warmly spiced pies cooling on windowsills, the deep smell of smoke from bonfires and burned leaves, collected and removed to make room for celebration. Bright fruits and vegetables are piled on tables, waiting for preparation and consumption, and around him he hears talk and laughter. 

It’s good to know that there are people who find light in all this darkness. Alistair smiles to himself as Caer Bronach appears in the distance, looming above the lake beyond it. His light should be there tonight, if everything is as he hopes. Finding out that Cullen was in charge of the Inquisition’s forces left him breathless, embarrassed in front of Hawke, who seemed to hold a much different opinion of the man. She will be there tonight, along with Varric and some of the others he’s not had occasion to meet at Skyhold, but they are not the ones who fill his thoughts as he slides down off his horse outside the gate of the keep.

Time and again, Alistair has tried to approach Cullen at Skyhold, and time and again he’s found the Commander occupied, unable to spare a moment for more than a smile in his direction. The smiles warm him, and they’ve given him the hope that’s brought him to Crestwood tonight, where Alistair hopes for more. There will be no war table meetings, no clutter of scouts, no meddling Leliana with a perfectly poorly timed report to deliver. Tonight Alistair will finally get the opportunity to spend some real time with his old friend, to drink in the way the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkle when he laughs, to ask how he got the scar that draws Alistair’s attention to his lips. 

The sun sets fire to the stones of Caer Bronach, painting it in the same burnt orange as the leaves and setting it apart from the darkening sky beyond it. Alistair smooths a hand through his hair and over his coat as he walks up the path to the entrance. Already he can hear talk and music from inside, and children run past him to the gate carrying pumpkins with flickering candles inside. 

The evening air is cool, but seems colder still when he steps into the entryway and loses sight of the last of the sun. A shiver runs through him as he breathes in the scent of musty wood and damp rocks. He has a goal tonight, and he will not be robbed of his time with Cullen and this precious chance to reconnect and perhaps kindle a long-dormant ember carried in his heart.

Alistair pulls the door open and goes still on the uneven stone threshold. The main courtyard of the keep is set with wooden tables covered with linen cloths, all of them decorated with glossy apples and hefty gourds, cups and goblets and plates in some disarray where they’ve been left by revelers. Lights dance above the grounds, suspended in the air by unseen magic, white and gold and too large and soft to be stars. The stone walls are slung with cloth in the colors of the season, making it seem more a ballroom than a courtyard, the night sky an inky ceiling for the festivities.

He scans the crowd, picking out what few familiar faces he can as he searches for the man he’s come to see. There is music in one corner, and dancing, but Alistair looks away, certain that that would not be where Cullen would be found. There were no dancing lessons in Templar training. As he continues to survey the keep, he sees smiling faces, rosy cheeks close to bonfires and friends and lovers nestled together for warmth, but few of the Inquisitor’s inner circle. Josephine is checking a list on one of the raised platforms, her eyes moving from the paper to the crowd and back with dissatisfaction, and in a far corner that strange elven girl is laughing loudly along with Blackwall, the Inquisition’s own Grey Warden. Alistair is glad to see him; he’s missed the camaraderie of the Wardens, but none of these people are Cullen.

It’s easy enough for him to slip in among those who sit gathered around a table, a mug of something warm and spiced appearing before him as he settles in on the bench to wait for the Commander to arrive. He rests his elbows on the table and wraps his hands around the mug, listening as one of the villagers tells a story of the darkspawn invasion. It’s all wrong, distorted in ways that tell Alistair this man has never seen a darkspawn in his life, but the others are enraptured, their eyes wide as he thrills them with talk of cold, spindly fingers and hissing, fanged mouths. The distraction of it allows Alistair to relax somewhat, falling into the story rather than shifting in place and glancing about constantly. The tale ends with a Grey Warden appearing and slaying the foes, and he smiles behind the edge of the mug as the others applaud. Without his uniform on he can take no credit for the heroics, but he finds he doesn’t mind.

A woman takes over next and her story is more credible, if less practiced, with talk of a spirit haunting a home, desperate for the love she was denied in life. When Alistair feels a chill prick along his spine, he shakes it off and blames it on the strength of the drink and the proximity to the lake.

For Alistair, the evening continues on this way. His mug is never empty, and he finds himself pulled into the tales of demons and spirits just as much as the girls sitting across from him, or the old man who stops to listen, only to gasp and move on when a story turns bloody. He is pressed in among warm bodies, and yet at the end of each telling, he is overcome with a surge of loneliness. Not once in all his looking and hoping does he see Cullen Rutherford, and when the last candles are blown out and he drains the now-cold contents of his mug, he is desolate and crestfallen.

He keeps one hand on the wall as he makes his way out of Caer Bronach, willing the twinkling sky above him to stay still so that he can orient himself. The hill down from the keep is much steeper than it was earlier, so much so that he only just manages to catch himself stumbling and staggers to rest against a tree. He turns to lean his back against the trunk and closes his eyes, breathing in the cold night air to clear his head. There are many good reasons for Cullen not to come to the festival. That Alistair would be there should not even have reached his ears, let alone been important enough to keep him away. This is what he tells himself as he watches the stars through the last few leaves that shudder in the branches above him.

It takes him two tries to stand, the dry, packed earth under his feet tilting along with the sky. He puts a hand out to steady himself but stops when the quiet of the night is interrupted by an explosion of laughter.

Alistair turns in the direction of the sound, going cold when he sees the sight that greets him from the keep’s gallows. It is no man, but a monster that sits silhouetted against the moon behind him. Huge, with impossibly broad shoulders and long arms and legs, astride a steed that seems built to carry it, with glowing red eyes and plumes of steam around its mouth in the cold night air. The thing and its horse are still, but it looks at him quizzically, its head tilted to one side as if one of the misshapen horns were too heavy for it to bear. Eyes like coals burn into Alistair with a dull, unblinking gaze that remains even when Alistair rubs at his eyes and shakes his head.

“That’s the worst impression of a Darkspawn I’ve ever seen!” He calls out, waving a hand dismissively as he turns away. Some people take these celebrations very seriously, but he is tired and disappointed and wants nothing more than to get on his horse and ride back to his familiar cave for the night.

A problem with this plan presents itself almost immediately after he turns around. His horse, which was left securely tied to the hitching rail outside Caer Bronach when he arrived, is now nowhere to be seen. She is a lovely, gentle bay mare with white socks and no ability whatsoever to untie a knot, and yet she is gone. Alistair slides his hand along the rail as if in search of clues, sighing when he finds nothing. Perhaps one of the locals mistook her for their own, or thought she was abandoned and took her along for the night. Alistair was among the last to leave, so it’s not impossible, but it will make his night that much longer before it can end.

A shadow falls over Alistair where something’s moved to block the moonlight, and the same chill runs down his spine that he felt earlier during the tale of the Orlesian noble relentlessly pursued by a vengeful spirit in the form of an enormous beast.

He laughs to himself, rubbing at the back of his neck as if to banish the fear, but it lingers, increasing with a jolt when he lifts his head to see the pitch black horse looming over him, and the silhouette of its rider. The monstrous form is as still as it was, save for one difference: The head that sat so precariously on those broad shoulders now rests in the rider’s lap, grinning at Alistair from eye level.

“Who are you?” He shouts, scrambling away and tumbling backwards over the rail. Stars of a different sort flash before his eyes when the wind is knocked out of him at the impact, and he the ground beneath him shakes at the horse’s approach. Terror grips his chest and throat, clawing at him until he pulls in a strangled breath and twists to push himself to his feet. 

Clumps of dirt fly up from the ground under the impact of the beast’s hooves when it sets off towards him, and it is the last Alistair sees before he turns; It’s two, three steps before he’s running, following the closest thing to a path that he can see. He is unarmed, tipsy, and without a horse of his own. He holds no hope of being able to outrun the demon behind him, but perhaps he can hide or reach some other safety. His head and body fight over what little air he pulls in with each breath, leaving his head swimming as he sprints, all sense of direction lost save one: Away!

He doesn’t turn back to look, but his mind conjures images all its own: a snarling horse reared back, ready to bring its hooves down upon his head; a cackling madman, or monster, or nightmare made flesh; a thing that holds its own head in its hands, with frightful horns, sharp teeth and blazing eyes. The tips of branches claw at his clothing and leave stripes on his skin, and he fights against the scream rising in his throat, tells himself it is not the claws of a demon pulling him to his fate.

“We are coming for you, Grey Warden!” The laughter starts again and Alistair gasps for air, the damp chill of the night clinging to this throat as his arms and legs pump faster and faster, driven by breathless need to find safe ground or assistance. Trees and houses seem to pass in a blur, with not a soul around save Alistair and his pursuer, if indeed the thing behind him still possesses a soul. 

The lake is no longer home to monsters more dire than a large fish, and it is the perfect refuge for a desperate man. He can feel the hot breath of the horse on his back as he propels himself up the hill and launches his body gracelessly towards the water. The sting of the impact is quickly replaced by cold as the water seeps into his clothes and boots, pulling him down as he swims for the far shore. Only when he’s swum for what feels like half the lake does he stop to turn and look.

The horseman is on the edge of a dock, his beast pawing at the wood as if impatient to return to the chase. His deep, malevolent cackle rings off the stones that surround the lake, and Alistair watches in frozen horror as the horseman pulls his arm back and throws the head in his hand. It sails in a high arc over the lake, bursting into flame almost as soon as he lets go of it. The horse rears at the explosion, and Alistair plunges under the surface to avoid being hit by the fireball. For an instant everything is orange, red, blue - then dark.

It is days before Alistair returns to Skyhold. His horse reappeared the next morning, tied to a post by the dock near where he washed ashore during the night. His searching and interrogating turned up nothing; no one else saw a demon that night, nor did they hear laughter or shouts. There was no sign of the horseman, not even a hoofprint on the shoreline bigger than those of his own mare, and so he set the hallucation aside as a nightmare fueled by the spices in his mulled drinks, and went back to the fortress to wait, and to help prepare.

The weather at Skyhold is cold but bright, wind cutting through his armor as Alistair walks along the battlements. His nerve from the night of the festival is dampened, but the ember is not doused. He turns his gaze from the snowcapped Frostbacks to the door to Cullen’s office, only to find it blocked by a mountain of a man.

A man with broad shoulders, long arms and legs. His head is tilted as if one horn is too heavy for him to hold up as he regards Alistair with a calm, unblinking gaze.

Alistair stops in place, his hand going to his sword as he fights against the urge to flee again. Surely this man, so trusted by the Inquisitor, cannot be the same demon that harried him outside of the festival! 

His fears are lessened when the man - The Iron Bull - laughs, and it’s no maniacal cackle but rather an unexpectedly soft chuckle for a man of such size. He unfolds his arms from across his chest and pushes away from the door to walk towards Alistair, who does his best to regain his composure and swallow the cry blocking his throat.

“Good to see you’re back,” Iron Bull offers with a smile. “He was starting to get worried in there.”

He nods back towards the door and gives Alistair a knowing look. Hope flares in Alistair’s chest, but he can only nod dumbly, flexing his hand to uncramp it from where he’d grabbed at the pommel of his sword.

“You should go in and say hi,” Iron Bull continues. “There’s no one around to bother him right now. Won’t be for a while.”

“I-- Thank you. That’s… thank you.” Alistair nods again, shifting away from where Iron Bull has come to stand uncomfortably close to him, as if the battlements weren’t wide enough for both of them.

Iron Bull’s eye drags over Alistair, unsettling and deliberate, cataloguing every small twitch of his lip and shift of his weight. He’s heard that the man is Ben-Hassrath, but if so then this is the least subtle scrutiny Alistair has ever experienced.

“You’re not scared of me, are you, Warden?” There’s a curl of amusement in his voice when he asks the question that plucks at Alistair’s temper like a lute string.

“No, of course not,” he replies. 

“Good.” Iron Bull grins again and turns to walk away. “You’ve got nothing to fear from me,” he calls over his shoulder as he goes. “After all, that thing had two eyes, right?”


End file.
